


The Gold Watch II

by ddespair



Category: Pulp Fiction (1994)
Genre: F/M, Gen, blood but no violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddespair/pseuds/ddespair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An awkward chance encounter for Butch. Set some time after the events of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gold Watch II

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it'd be funny to write a little fic about Butch and Marsellus running into each other. ...And then it kinda turned into something else, whoops.

Vacation in Vegas wasn't the safest thing in his mind- true, it wasn't LA, but Vegas was LA's playpen in its backyard and it didn't sit quite right in his gut. But Fabienne wanted to go, she'd always dreamed of seeing the neon lights, she said. There were no fights, baseball season barely started, a slow betting week was what Butch himself was betting on. Not so high on out-of-towners. So he said okay.

A tearful request brought him to this convenience store, just off the strip. It was approaching 2am, but this was the city that never slept, so a handful of customers were milling around inside the store. Bachelorette parties looking at souvenir tchotchkes, frat boys buying beer, weathered locals popping in for a pack of smokes.

  
Butch didn't have a clear idea of where he'd find what he was looking for; it wasn't anything he'd ever had to look for before. While aimlesly wandering, his arm was lightly clipped by the woman walking down his aisle in the same direction. She was wearing sunglasses, a bit unusual for the middle of the night but this was Las Vegas, he saw a lot worse just walking across the hotel lobby to check-in yesterday. Striking woman, tall and leggy, with dark hair in, and Butch didn't know much about women's haircuts, but the type of hairstyle you mostly only saw in fashion magazines. Angular, if he had to pick a word to describe it.

  
She lowered her shades and bright blue eyes peered at him over them. "Sorry 'bout that, partner."

  
"No harm done," he shrugged, and continued his search. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her look hard at him over her sunglasses for a moment longer, her expression flat and unreadable, before pushing them back up and strolling away.

  
Something about her nagged at Butch. The interaction was harmless enough—maybe it was that last lingering look, or did he know her from somewhere? It must not have been that important, since the thought slipped easily from his mind once he found the thing he'd been sent for.

  
Holding it self-consciously in one hand, he shuffled his way awkwardly toward the register. And that's when his already uncomfortable night got worse.

  
The tall woman from earlier was already in line, lithe arm linked with that of a stocky black man in a beige suit. He turned his head at hearing Butch step into line behind him.

 

**Marsellus motherfucking Wallace.**

 

Butch felt as though his adam's apple had suddenly quadrupled in size. Their eyes met. Butch was sure Marsellus had the same recollection triggered in that moment: damp cement, hard plastic, leather cuffs, the sharp scent of blood on steel and a smoky whiff of gunpowder. What was the procedure in a situation like this? Pretend they don't know each other? Pretend they hadn't so much as seen the other guy, like he was invisible?

  
Fuck it, the ex-boxer thought. Fuck this, I'm out. True, this was no longer Marsellus' turf. They met on neutral ground, he'd kept up his end of the bargain and gotten and stayed the hell outta dodge. But even if Marsellus wasn't going to start shit, fuck this.

  
Almost as if he'd read Butch's mind and wanted to prove he wasn't going to start shit, Marsellus had his back turned again, but the muscles in his thick neck were knotted and tense. Butch almost felt sorry for him. As bad as his own flashbacks were, Butch was sure the other guy's was a damn sight worse.

  
As he turned to leave, however, he very clearly remembered the reason for his errand.

\---

He'd come home late that day, stuck around to shoot the shit with a customer he happened to particularly click with over their shared enthusiasm for muscle cars. After so long driving Fabienne's admittedly reliable but more-boring-than-drying-wall-plaster Honda, Butch was thrilled to be able to throw down cash from his winnings for his own, more respectable, American machine.

  
He came home expecting her to either jokingly or not-so-jokingly give him a hard time for his delay (depending on her mood, it was almost impossible to tell which), dinner on the table, peck on the cheek. But none of the lights were on, apartment only dimly lit by the remaining daylight filtering in through the white lace curtains Fabeinne had said reminded her of Amsterdam.

  
"Tulip? Baby?" he'd called, and a faint noise from the bedroom was the only response.

  
As he entered the room, he could tell she was crying inside the master bath with the door shut.  A sense of dread knotted his stomach. "Baby?" he repeated as he turned the doorknob.

  
It was a gruesome sight.

  
Blood smeared around the rim of the toilet, on the rug in front of the sink, splatters on the molding, even. Fabienne's thighs were covered with the stuff and she was clutching a blood-stained washcloth.

  
"What happened? Did you hurt yourself? Where's the cut?" He pulled her to her feet by the wrist as she wailed incomprehensibly—he  couldn't even tell if it was English or French coming out of her mouth.

  
"It'll be okay, I'm gonna get you an ambulance right now, okay?" Butch gently sat her down at the edge of the tub, but before he could dash into the other room to grab the phone, Fabienne grabbed a handful of his shirt. He caught the word "baby" between the sobs wracking her body.

_"A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy."_

\---

A few months had passed and while she'd mostly recovered from the depression that kept her in bed, tears silently rolling down her face while staring at a blank tv screen, there were still moments where Fabienne was a bit off-color. That was also why he agreed to the trip, to cheer her up, but now she was back at it. Skipped a period and needed to know, right now.

  
So here he was in the middle of the night, clutching the cardboard box while standing in line behind the mob boss he fucked over in his grand hurrah goodbye to the sport of boxing.

  
Butch looked away pointedly as Marsellus paid for his purchase and grunted in response to the cashier's perfunctory pleasantries. As he and his lady sauntered toward the door, plastic bag in hand, she waved goodbye to Butch over her shoulder without turning.  
  
The test came out negative. Butch braced himself for the worst but though she teared up and sniffled, "Merde," Fabienne's reaction was surprisingly subdued.

  
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up against him, tucking her head under his chin. "That's ok, lemon pie, baby's just waiting for us to prepare a nice pretty house with a picket fence first."

  
She nodded into the collar of his t-shirt and wiped her eyes on it. He playfully shoved her onto the bed in response. "Besides, trying is half the fun, innit?"

 

Fabienne laughed and play-struck him back. "Shut up, you! ...Let's make the spoons."

 

"You know," she said to him as they lay spooning in the bluish glow of of the muted tv, "You'll make a good papa someday, Butch."

  
He smiled into her hair and traced the face of his watch with one finger. "I sure hope so, sugar pop. I sure hope so."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just felt like Butch's Bora Bora plan was a little too far-fetched even with his winnings and whatever he was earning normally. So he stayed stateside and works a bit, and their digs are modest. How boring, sorry.


End file.
